The Shop at the End of the Road
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The Shop At The End Of The Road: Part 2 free porn video
THE SHOP AT THE END OF THE ROAD (PART TWO)
5.
A frigid silence chilled the air between them. Felicity transfixed the
boy with an ebony stare. Robbie withered in that arctic gaze; a deep
carmine flush invaded his features. Nothing was said for several
moments, then Felicity began gathering up the cards with an air of
weary dismissal, her expression one of vague distaste.
"We have nothing further to discuss."
Robbie felt a surge of panic. What had he done? She'd been trying to
help him, to offer him a solution, and he'd missed his chance. His
window of opportunity had closed - probably forever. Worse than that,
he'd insulted her in some obscure way he didn't quite understand. He
could see that now, see it in the sharp angle of her spine, the harsh
set of her features. She was the one person who might comprehend the
doubt and confusion he'd been feeling - and he'd pushed her away with a
few careless words.
"No, wait," he cried (a little more desperately than he'd intended),
leaning half-way over the counter, "you don't understand, Felicity. I
... I can't talk about this, really I can't! It's too embarrassing, too
-" he groped for the word - "humiliating. Whenever I think about it, I
feel all dirty and sweaty, like I was -" touching myself, he was going
to say, but let the sentence trail off into oblivion. He tried to start
over: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"
"Do you trust me Robbie?" Felicity asked, cutting him off.
"Yes," the boy nodded, hesitantly.
"Then listen carefully. As I said before, the answers are never where
you first look for them. Sometimes you have to take risks, venture into
places you'd rather not go. Places that frighten you, the way a child
fears a darkened room. The problem is; you're no longer a child,
Robbie. No one is going to hold your hand now. If you want to explore
that darkened room, you have to enter alone ... and face whatever waits
within."
Robin nodded, saying nothing.
"You came here today because you wanted something," the woman
continued, "something so magical and terrifying that you can't bring
yourself to ask for it by name. And here you face a paradox, Robbie.
Because what you want - what you need so desperately - has no real
name."
And she was right. There were words - alien, clinical words he'd read
in textbooks and heard on documentaries - but they couldn't begin to
describe the complicated emotions he'd experienced in the preceding
weeks. Robbie knew precisely what they meant, but the meanings
themselves were irrelevant. As she'd said, what he wanted had no real
name.
"What can I do?" He asked, teetering on despair.
"Give it a name."
"I can't. I ... I don't know how to put it into words."
"You don't WANT to put it into words Robbie. You want the answer, but
you don't want to ask the question. You want the cake but you don't
want to cook. You want the gain, but not the pain. Like all men, you
want The Easy Solution." She measured him with a dry, levelling glance.
"I thought you were different."
"I am!" he almost wailed. This wasn't right, she wasn't being fair. He
WAS different, he'd been made to feel different from the moment he
started school. Rejected and ostracised from day one, he'd endured the
contempt and loathing of virtually everybody he knew. The big kids in
the playground. Mr Grady, his gym coach. Mrs Lorris, his homeroom
teacher. The old geezer who mopped out the hallway back in grade
school, the one who used to call him 'Rosebud' under his breath. Jesus,
his own parents on occasion, when his effeminate ways embarrassed them
in public. How could he explain that to her, make her see what an ugly,
pointless waste his existence had become?
She already knows.
The thought flashed across his mind like summer lightning: she knew.
She'd always known. She'd known from the morning he'd stepped across
The Shop's tiled threshold five years ago. Even then, she'd known
everything about him, known him better than his own Mother. Every hair,
every pore, every flickering eyelash. The Tarot had told her, whispered
his story through her gliding fingertips, slowly disrobing his fragile
soul until he was left naked and shivering in the night.
"You already know what I want," he said, his voice wavering on the
verge of tears.
"Yes." Her tone was calm, unperturbed, almost serene. Robbie gaped in
surprise. He'd expected a laugh, a denial, a knowing smirk; anything
but indifferent confirmation.
"Then why won't you give it to me?"
"Because you're not a child, Robbie. As I told you before: if you
really want this, you have to ask for it. By name." She started
rearranging the cards once more, laying them out in a rough semi-
circle. "There's an old saying, no doubt you've heard it: Money can't
buy happiness. It's true. Money can buy anything except happiness." The
cards now formed a tight, gold-rimmed crescent moon, the horns pointing
in Robbie's direction. "But that doesn't mean happiness comes free."
"I only have five dollars," he said automatically, not really
understanding what she'd meant.
"Four ninety-eight," she corrected with a throw-away gesture, "but that
doesn't matter: your money's no good here, as they used to say back in
Vegas." A fond, nostalgic look passed over her face, as if she were
recalling a dear, years-lost friend. She went on: "You can't buy what
you want, Robbie, not anymore. The price is more than you could
possibly afford. Bill Gates couldn't afford what you want, trust me."
"Then how - ?" Robin began, his voice quailing with anguish. Why was
she doing this, why was she torturing him with these lying riddles? She
was playing with him, a cruel, teasing game he felt compelled to play
against his will. His head was reeling with the contradictions: yes, I
have what you want, but no, you can't have it. Yes, you can buy it, but
no, you can't. Yes, I'm going to help you: no, I won't. What was going
on? Felicity had never treated him this way before. She was offering
him false hope in one hand and an empty promise in the other. He felt
cheated, tricked, betrayed.
I thought you liked me, he thought, feeling his heart sink with lonely,
child-like hurt.
"I do," Felicity told him, as if he'd spoken the words aloud (which he
had, without realising it), "that's why we're having this conversation.
I like you quite a lot, Robbie. Very few of my customers have shown
such dedication over the years. Unfortunately, I can't simply give you
the answer to all your prayers. There are rules about these things. I'm
not a genie, I don't grant wishes. Get that part absolutely clear in
your mind. This is a place of business, Robbie, which means we have to
strike a bargain."
"A ... bargain?" The boy replied uneasily. The conversation was taking
on rather a macabre tone, as if he was bartering for his soul. Reading
his expression (or maybe his mind, let's get it out in the open),
Felicity flashed him another wolfish, predatory smile, freezing the
blood in his veins.
"A deal, anyway. Reach an agreement, negotiate a contract. Make an
exchange. The way things were done back in the olden days, before there
were books or banks or money."
"What else can I give you?" Robbie asked in the tiny, strangled voice
he'd used earlier. Knowledge crept over him in a slow revelation. She
had trapped him, backed him into a corner with her wilful deceits and
manipulations. Why in God's name was she doing this? What could she
possibly gain?
Felicity's hand drifted over the cards.
"Tell me what you were looking for, Robbie."
The boy opened his mouth, attempting to reply, but the words refused to
budge. They caught in his throat like fish in a net, struggling to
escape back to the depths. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to
abase himself before this strange, fathomless woman. It would be a
humiliation beyond endurance. But what choice did he have? She had
deprived him of all options, all alternatives.
Inhaling a deep, calming breath, Robbie forced out his answer:
"I was looking for a dress."
...
To be continued.
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